


Our stars

by Erasmus_Jones



Series: The Kissing you trilogy. [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sherlolly - Freeform, forced abbsence, getting home, sherlock misses molly, taking moriarty down
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-31
Updated: 2013-07-31
Packaged: 2017-12-21 23:50:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/906410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erasmus_Jones/pseuds/Erasmus_Jones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The second part to "Kissing you" which was written months ago. Initially prompted by a song called Kissing you. It felt like it needed to be concluded ao there's going to be a trilogy. We started with Molly's POV now we have Sherlock's. Shameless Sherlolly feels right now.  </p>
<p> </p>
<p>As always huge thanks to MyCitrusPocket for keeping me in line!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our stars

Sherlock sat on a large rock in the middle of a pebble beach, a still and silent shadow against the deep inky night sky. He raised his collar against the wind that moved in from out at sea as the cold caress stung his exposed skin. He looked down at the phone in his hands and the picture it displayed. He knew it was risky even daring to have the image in his possession, its very existence potentially putting her in danger. It was a risk he had weighed and decided the minimal threat it may pose was worth it. Should it fall into the wrong hands, he was confident they wouldn’t be able to identify her from the photograph. His fingers felt the cold as he stroked the side of the image absently. To anyone else looking it was just an expanse of skin, female, but anonymous. A photograph taken of a woman, her back to the camera, face turned away as she lay on a bed of grass, her skin almost luminescent in the moonlight. The gentle curve of her spine as the image ended, finishing above what he knew to be the soft, pale, globes of her rear. A curtain of silken waves reached over her shoulders to tumble in chaotic disarray around her. To a stranger, an onlooker, she could have been anyone. To him she was his world, his reminder to come home. The image a promise of the soft skin he could still feel beneath his lips, the curve of her hip that his hands had cradled and longed to do so again. She didn’t know he had the picture, he’d taken it as she slept beneath the moon. He’d not been able to detach himself from her for an extended period of time, only long enough to snap the quick picture before pressing himself to the smooth expanse of her back and wrapping himself around her like a blanket, to keep away the chill. He’d not wanted to leave without just one tangible thing to remind him. Just one small piece of proof that it wasn’t all inside his head, to remind him that there was something he had to keep fighting for when it all seemed like the uphill battle, and a lot of what he’d had to do felt like there was no end in sight. The dawn had been drawing closer and they had both known with it would come their separation, reality breaking in to their perfect moment and spiriting him away, neither of them knowing when or if he’d return.

 

He lost himself in the memories for a moment, well worn and familiar like old friends. He disappeared into his mind palace; the room there only for Molly, had grown in the time he’d been gone. He’d uncovered information he hadn’t realised was filed a way, small things really, details not pertinent to any case, particulars not terribly relevant to anyone or anything but him. The way she tucked her hair behind her ears when it started to slip from the ponytail she haphazardly tied it in. How she looked when she concentrated, so focused in her lab, nothing distracting her as she frowned and chewed her lip at some puzzle or other. The way her fingers danced over his limbs, fluttering like a butterfly’s wing as she traced patterns on his skin. Her laugh, each of her laughs, the ones just for him and those for the rest of the world and how he’d learnt to tell the difference. The manner in which she fit perfectly under his arm, especially when she had him sit with her on the sofa. Even he knew his protests at that were merely token ones. The way her eyes burned when she looked at him as he held himself on bent elbows above her, bringing their faces close before sealing their lips together. Considering their time together had been cut short by necessity, he had a great number of memories of her. Garnered from the years before she’d removed his blinkers, allowing him to see her for what she was, and realise how important she was to him.

 

He’s been away from her for a year, 365 days of battles and pain and longing to return home. He was nearly done; Moriarty’s web was almost gone. One last man and this job was done, they could move on with their lives, a little more scarred, a little older, but a lot safer. He’d had no contact with her since he left, he couldn’t even count the number of times he’d longed to just call. To dial those numbers he knew as well as his own, to just hear her voice once more. To allow it to wash over him and fill him with a calm he’d fought so long in vain to find. It had been hardest when he’d spoken to Mycroft, he watched her for him. Made sure she was safe in his absence. He provided reports, thanks to him Sherlock knew she returned to their valley every few months and spent the night on her own there. Mycroft didn’t say what she did there, only reassured him that she was guarded and when she left she was less troubled than when she arrived. He wanted to curse his brother, wanted more information. He knew Mycroft kept things from him; he could hear in his voice that there were many things he didn’t say. He didn’t say Molly was doing well, but he didn’t tell him exactly what was happening. Molly loved deeply and completely and if he was this affected by their separation he couldn’t imagine how she coped. No that was incorrect, he didn’t want to imagine how she fared, and he didn’t think he’d be able to continue if he thought about her pain. He wanted to go to her, he was reaching the point where second hand information just wasn’t enough anymore. With each new injury, each new setback, all he wanted to do was limp home. The photograph then became his lifeline, his incentive to keep fighting. He had to make sure she was safe and when he remembered that, he found the pain lessened and his resolve hardened.

 

Locking the phone with one last glance at her, he dropped it into his pocket and leant forwards to rest his elbows on his knees and steepled his fingers beneath his chin. Sherlock took a deep breath and let his eyes slowly close. He listened to the waves as they broke against the shore, the knocking of tumbling pebbles as they rushed with the waves seeming to cover the whisper of the water itself. If he concentrated hard enough he could almost convince himself he could hear her voice hidden in the white noise. Whispered words of love, a concept he had long professed was alien to him and yet there it had been staring him in the face all along. He could almost lose himself in those words, imagining her voice washing over him and through him. Now he’d tasted it, however briefly, he longed to get back to her and he was finally nearly there. He opened his eyes but didn’t move, just raised them to look at the moon and stars above him. He’d made her a promise, no matter where he was the sky they shared was the same and it was theirs. The stars he’d deleted since he was a child. Information that had taken up valuable space, previously disregarded was now filled once more, with the names she supplied. This time information was valuable beyond reasoning, now those stars shone in the darkness over the last expanse of water that separated them. The same time zone, the same constellations, filled with promises. He was closer to her now than he had been for a very long time. The end was near and he’d be spirited over the waves before him and guided home. Mycroft merely waited for his last update, once confirmation came through that the last player of the game was taken care of, a plane would be waiting to carry him across the Irish Sea.

 

Knowing the longer he sat where he was, the longer it would take to finish the mission. He pushed himself to his feet, slower than he would have been before all this began. He faced the waves, and spoke in to the wind.

 

“I’m coming home, Molly. I’m coming home, please be waiting.”

 

With hurried steps that crunched loudly through the wave rolled pebbles, he strode along the desolate beach, determined it was time to finish this; he’d left Molly waiting long enough.


End file.
